December twenty-fifth—Christmas. In Western families it mattered as much as the Spring Festival did in Eastern ones.
Loren still couldn't figure out why wizards celebrated Christmas. Wizards and the Church had once been mortal enemies, and now wizards were celebrating a saint's birthday? The thought alone was a little ridiculous.
Not that it stopped him from happily tearing into presents. Who would refuse to wake up to a pile of gifts in the room? He had even stayed up late the night before so he could temporarily disable some of the house's magical defenses while the round-faced "fat chickens" delivered everything, only reactivating them once the gifts had all arrived.
Of course, he didn't start ripping things open in the middle of the night. He waited until his morning training was done, then went back to his room to deal with the mountain of packages.
Dealing with gifts was no small task. The room was nearly jammed full. A rough count said there were… a lot. Cleaning them up wouldn't be easy either—the senders were a mixed bunch, and an ordinary wizard would spend ages sorting them, with a decent chance of triggering something nasty.
For Loren, that wasn't a problem. He pulled Anti-Magic Gloves from his personal storage and slipped them on, tossed a few customized storage crates down as staging bins, and began sorting in an orderly way.
First, with a wave, he swept an entire heap of gifts reeking faintly of Love Potions straight into a storage crate. Those were clearly from older girls—after all, using Love Potions on a man was a witch's time-honored "culture." Unfortunately, compared to Loren's standard, their Potions work wasn't great; they hadn't covered the scent at all, and the tickle in his nose proved it.
He wasn't going to trash them, though. Once he finished processing everything, he'd carry that batch into the small world and let the experimental subjects have a taste.
Next he opened his Sight and picked out anything shrouded in a black aura, dropping those into a prepped containment box. Those were gifts from people who disliked him—maybe a dozen. A closer look turned up many familiar traces, especially from Slytherin's Quidditch team; not a single member had missed him. He'd hand those to Peter Pettigrew to neutralize, then open them to see if they hid any "surprises." One should pay back courtesy with courtesy, after all.
With the dangerous ones dealt with, he kept the Anti-Magic Gloves on, grouped the rest with a few organizing charms, and continued unwrapping. He started with two special ones—one from the Weasley family, one from the Longbottoms.
From the Weasleys came a hand-knitted sweater from Molly Weasley, bright red, with a big "A" on the chest—the first letter of his surname. Loren liked it, though he never wore sweaters.
From the Longbottom family came a book, You Don't Know About Strange Plants—hand-copied, by the look of it, clearly a family collectible.
Next came the stack from Hogwarts classmates—the biggest pile. To his mild surprise, there were even a few from Slytherin's little snakes. Loren quietly noted those names; clearly, their families could be early targets for outreach.
Gryffindor students seemed to have coordinated: everything bore the Lion King emblem. From bedding to mugs and tea sets, they'd basically gifted him an entire life-kit.
He confirmed it was orchestrated when he opened Fred and George Weasley's package: a "biography" they'd written, The Lion King, full of Loren-related bits—including how they'd organized the gift campaign.
Hufflepuff's badgers were as sweet as ever: either homemade food or recipe collections, most adapted from the house-elves' books. That pleased Loren; his hard work improving Hogwarts' meals had paid extra dividends.
Ravenclaw's eagles sent books of all kinds, most not in shops or the library. From the bindings and notes, Loren guessed they'd come from the little library in Ravenclaw's common room—crystallized wisdom from earlier Ravens.
A few Slytherin gifts remained at the end—beautifully wrapped, all delicate vessels in proper pure-blood style. He set them with the luxury pieces he'd bought on Oxford Street, planning to hand them to Fred and George for reference to design some new ring looks.
Once he'd worked through that mountain, he turned to another large pile. One by one, he could tell these had been prepared with care—things Loren could truly use, but hard to find on the market. The Diagon Alley shopkeepers weren't fools. He'd casually mentioned a few items while shopping earlier, and now here they were. He'd need to swing by the Alley again; these weren't just gifts, they were signals that orders had arrived.
He stored the materials away and reached for the most eye-catching box. The label was from the Scotland Quidditch national team; by the shape, it had to be a broom. The shaft was carefully worked from ash, sleek as a teardrop, polished to a diamond-hard sheen. One glance and Loren knew it: a Firebolt. He'd been talking about that broom for ages; he hadn't expected it to reach him like this.
A letter floated out beside it. Loren flicked a hand and the paper leapt to his palm. He unfolded it:
"This is a new work by the renowned broom-maker Randolph Spudmore, reputed to be the fastest broom in the world. He gave us two for testing; we're passing one to you. As the strongest Beater, you deserve the fastest broom."
Loren had to admit the Scotland coach knew how to handle people. He'd joined the team, sure—but he hadn't even played a game for them yet, and they still—
He wanted to test the Firebolt right away, but there wasn't time. He still needed to spend Christmas with family. Later, then.
He tucked the Firebolt away and moved to the final, most important batch—the professors' gifts.
He opened the first without checking the card and found a paper: "On Establishing Transfiguration Tiers for Wizards." Clearly from Professor McGonagall—and more than one paper, from the look of the bundle. Fortunately, there was also a letter. Loren skimmed and understood her thinking.
To be honest, he didn't care about the honor she proposed. With his reading speed he browsed the paper quickly, then pulled pen and paper and wrote McGonagall a reply, stating plainly that he didn't need the honor and offering several suggestions to improve her work. When he finished, he called Backup Food to deliver it.
Next up: Professor Flitwick's gift—a fine volume, Quidditch: A Hundred Greatest Matches, collecting fan-voted classics. Plainly, Flitwick hoped Loren would focus more on Scotland's national team than on "farming" the House Cup.
Professor Snape's gift was simple: a vial of Felix Felicis. It seemed freshly brewed; Loren could feel the magic inside still settling. He'd long been curious about Felix Felicis; he'd never found it in Diagon Alley, and the apothecary had said it rarely hit the market—you needed luck to buy "Liquid Luck."
He put it away and opened the next parcel. He hardly needed the card to know it was from Hagrid: The Monster Book of Monsters. Loren judged the craftsmanship high; at least the thing could sense danger like a living creature—otherwise it wouldn't be lying so obediently in its box. When he reached for it, it trembled, then played dead the moment his fingers touched it, letting him leaf through without a peep. Tempting as it was to study right away, he restrained himself and sent it through a Vanishing Cabinet into the small world, asking Shiraori to keep an eye on it.
Then Dumbledore's: a handwritten book titled The River of Love, clearly an unpublished personal manuscript.
The rest weren't much to fuss over—he opened them quickly and skimmed. Most were from professors of elective subjects and were, predictably, books tied to their fields.
At the bottom, his expression darkened: no gift from Professor Quirrell. Even Professor Binns, a ghost, had sent something—an old diary, not very useful, but still a gift. He had prepared something for Quirrell, and the man couldn't be bothered to show the most basic courtesy. Even sending some cursed trinket like a little snake would be better than nothing.
Once Dumbledore was done using Quirrell, Loren was going to see that Quirrell got what was coming to him.
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